


The Mark

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Smut, Some semblance of plot, Suspense, Vaginal Sex, a lot of nonsense really, blowjob, handcuffed Liam - yes please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: What could she have done to put a target on her head?
Relationships: Liam (Nikita) x Original Female character, Liam (Nikita) x ofc
Kudos: 5





	The Mark

Dancing.

Fucking  _ dancing. _

Everytime he sees her through his scope, that’s what she’s doing.

Is the radio on? Christmas tunes? Or old school rock? Taylor Swift? What?

She dances with gay abandon. Sometimes in jeans. Sometimes with a big skirt that she bunches in her fists and swings around her legs.

He likes either.

He positions himself, waits for her to walk in front of the window, in the frame, and then he sees her dancing, and he can’t do it. Can’t pull the trigger.

Can’t end the  _ dance-like-no-one’s-watching _ tableau before him.

So he goes back and tells the customer that there was a kid, or that the doorbell went as he was lining up.

Thankfully his other jobs are plentiful - but pretty soon that cunt Alfredo is gonna put another sniper on the job, and then what?

Then there’ll be no more dancing in front of windows. No more skirts fisted in hands with painted nails. No more bed-head hair as her hips move to the beat he can’t hear.

His finger sits on the trigger. Her sweet face is perfectly within the crosshairs. He could end it all now.

Go back to the customer. Take payment. No clean up even required.

But he hesitates, and she moves, and the moment is lost.

She comes back into the crosshairs. Lifts her arms.

Rolls up the hem of her t-shirt.

_ Fuck. She isn’t gonna- _

The t-shirt comes off.

Liam looks around for a moment, like an idiot. Of course no one else saw that. She’s on the fifteenth floor; her window faces the abandoned meatpacking district office block he’s currently crouched in. She thinks she can’t be seen.

She wears a bra, a lacy affair that’s deep red against her skin.

The t-shirt falls to the floor out of his view. She starts on the buttons of her dark wash jeans.

He’s getting hard in his pants. This is…. Inconvenient. 

The jeans shimmy down. She wears plain cotton underwear but it doesn’t matter - turns him on more. He shifts in his belly-down crouch, and the just the rub of his own pants against his erection makes him groan.

She bends and then the jeans are off. She wears only the bra and underwear now. When she turns the perfect peach of her ass catches in the moonlight.

_ Fuck. _

What is she even wanted for anyway?

How could someone who dances in the moonlight in her threadbare walk-up kitchen be wanted for anything?

He can’t put a bullet in her. And he’s famed for being a killing machine.

Liam bites his lip as she starts swaying her hips again. And he realises she’s looking at something - a little TV? She circles her hips like a belly dancer and that’s so hot that he has to grind down on his cock to relieve some of the pressure. Holy shit. Is he really gonna jack off to a mark in an abandoned building?

Yeah. He is.

He puts the safety on. No shooting today, and then with his spare hand he unsnaps his jeans and fists himself.  _ Fuck, that’s good. _ He breathes out in satisfaction.

The mark’s tongue flicks out to moisten her lips as she sways and Liam’s cock twitches in his grasp. She slides her palms down her belly, up and down, and he imagines his tongue taking the same path, tasing the softness of her skin, the tiny, downy hairs. He bites off a curse as she closes her eyes, lashes thick on the curve of her cheeks, and he strokes himself harder, imagining her on her knees for him. Licking the swollen head of him, groaning his name, running her nails over his ball sac, her touch feather-light just how he likes, and then, taking him deep inside, her tongue curling-

He comes on a strangled cry, the orgasm both shattering and somehow unsatisfying.

As he shudders, she opens her eyes and he swears she looks  _ right at him _ \- and winks.

******

When he finally gets to her apartment, it’s empty.

He smells her - citrus and vanilla and some artsy incense he can’t name. For a moment he thinks about going through her things for some clue as to where she might have gone, but then he sees it when he reaches the bathroom - the note in lipstick on the mirror, in loopy handwriting somehow at odds with the pillarbox red shade.

_ Too slow. _

He smiles at his own reflection.

*****

For the next few days he takes other jobs. He buys himself some time with Alfredo - one of the guy’s henchmen mysteriously disappears and then reappears in pieces in the river; that ought to keep him occupied for a few days - and then he stakes out her apartment.

She takes her coffee with cream, no sugar. If she isn’t in the mood for a coffee, she likes a chai latte. After she lets herself back in to her apartment late one night, a takeout cup in one hand, he sneaks up the fire escape after her, ensuring his steps are  _ silent. _ He hasn’t become the best in the business by fuckin’ accident.

He picks her lock. Silently. He can hear a pin drop, but it doesn’t. He moves on soundless feet but when he gets inside, the window is open and the empty cardboard cup mocks him, balanced on an ancient ottoman.

Marker on the side reads:

_ Better luck next time. _

He stalks through the apartment to her bedroom, lies down on the bed. Thinks about how she feels naked; the softness of her skin. The sounds she might make when he’ll eventually fuck her.

Then he leaves.

******

A day later, he pays a friend in the biz to trail her somewhere. Turns out, it’s a dance class she runs. The next time, he’s there, watching her belly dancing through the little aperture of his scope. She moves like a dream, like the streamline of a seal through water. Seamless; a ballet of silken skin and limbs perfectly controlled.

Christ, he wants her under him.

Over him. Any fucking way he can get her.

She finishes the class. As the door closes behind her, he watches her students pack up.

His phone thrums in his pocket.

_ Learn anything? Or did you jack off again? _

At this point, he’s enjoying the cat-and-mouse chase more than he’d  _ ever  _ have enjoyed killing her.

*******

  
  


He hears on the grapevine that Alfredo has put someone else on the job. Making her someone else’s mark.

He can’t kill Alfredo. Not yet. Too dangerous.

At some point it occurs to him that he’s considered killing his cash cow to protect this stranger he’s somehow now in thrall to.

He uses a burner phone to call the number she texted from, but it rings dead.

She’s just as good as him. Maybe better. Where the hell did she come from?

This time, in between jobs, he monitors her routine, and once he thinks she’s asleep, he sneaks in through a faulty ventilation shaft in her building (flirting with the super paid off; it usually does). 

For five long minutes, he lays on his stomach above her bedroom, watching as she sleeps, her breathing soft and even.

He takes his time unscrewing the ceiling panel, making sure to be silent. Years of this have given him rock steady control over his hands. His tools work like an extension of his fingers.

Just as he levers the panel off, her eyes open.

They look at each other for a long moment, her face illuminated by the moon through the sash window.

He waits for her to run. To grab a Glock from under her pillow and shoot him.

But instead she crooks a finger, silently.

He hooks his fingers in the hole he’s made in her ceiling, lowers himself. Waits for her to move. She doesn’t.

He drops down on to the foot of her bed, and she’s  _ on _ him, grabbing him by the soft material of his Under Armour shirt and pulling him on top of her. Caught by surprise, blinded by the quick one-two punch of desire, he bucks into her. Her low moan into his mouth is  _ heaven. _

“Liam,” she says simply, and damn if her knowing his name and using it like that, doesn’t make him almost blow his load right there.

Their hands are everywhere on each other; he pulls back the covers from her body, warm and pliant from sleep, and she lets him, once free she wraps her legs around his hips, anchoring him, nestling the line of his cock right where they both want it.

“Who  _ are _ you?” he grunts against her neck. She smells sweet; of the residue of slumber and her citrus perfume.

She tuts. “You of all people should know we don’t give ourselves away.” She tightens her legs around his waist, rubs herself up along the length of his hard-on.

He hears himself _growl_ , almost feral, and then he’s on her neck, teeth scraping along her pulse point and it makes her arch under him. _Fuck,_ she feels good, better than he fantasized. She bucks again and rolls them so she’s on top, grabs his hands. His eyes nearly roll back in his head when she grinds her hips just so-

And he pays, handsomely, for that moment of pleasure, because the  _ chink _ registers too late, and he’s handcuffed to the bed.

With only one free hand he can’t pin her down. He eyes her, snarling.

“That’s better. Can’t understand it when you’re soft,” she teases. 

“Let. Me. Go,” he bites off, keeping his tone even. Can’t let her know she’s bested him.

“No thanks.” She twirls the key just out of reach; it’s tiny, hard to see in the slivers of moonlight now peeking in and out between the cloud cover of the city. “But if you’re good and lie still… I might let you come.”

His cock twitches at that, unintentional on his part, but she smiles, moves down his body.

“Deal?”

It’ll give him time to think, to come up with a plan B, and - who the fuck is he kidding? - he’s been daydreaming about this for days, walking around with a semi in his pants. Jacking off hasn’t even helped.

“Deal.”

She commando-crawls down his body. He buries his free hand in her hair - there’s endless spools of it, thick and soft - and doesn’t the key.

She snorts. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

A smart-ass reply is on the tip of his tongue, but then she unzips his jeans and uses hers on his cock, and he can’t think. Can’t process anything but the slick, wet heat of her lips. The curl of her tongue. The greedy way she takes him down, almost all the way, and  _ hmmmmmmms. _

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Not tonight,” she chuckles against the swollen head of his dick. She licks off a sticky trail of precome and then uses her other hand to roll his balls in her palm. He bucks off the bed, but she slants her elbow on his thighs, pinning him. “Did I say you could move?”

_ Fuck, _ he can’t formulate a plan like this. Not when the need to come has invaded every fibre of his being. His blood is on fire.

She doesn’t let up, bringing him to the edge before removing all sensation bar the soft touch of her lips just at the base of his cock, where he doesn’t need it. He strains up under her, but she’s strong.

“Beg,” she whispers against him. A trail of precome follows her words.

“Fuck. You,” he grinds out.

“I  _ said, _ not tonight.”

She licks a long stripe up him and he jerks against her, panting.

“Beg,” she repeats.

“No.”

Sitting back on her haunches, she smiles. Her hair looks glossy in the moonlight, curly. She’s a Goddess in a New York walk-up, a siren on a rock too far out in the waves for him to ever reach. He wants her more than he wants his next breath.

“Well, then…” she sucks just the head of him into her mouth, swirling her tongue  _ just there - _ and then she stops.

He’s going to die. 

She starts to stand up.

“Please,” he hears himself grate out.

It’s been years since he’s said that to anyone, save cashiers and waiters. Years since he’s begged. For anything.

Years since he’s  _ needed _ release like he needs this.

She smiles slowly, like a sunrise, or a cat seeing a bowl of cream nearby.

And then she wraps her hands around the length of him, and goes to  _ town, _ curling her tongue just right, applying the perfect amount of pressure and suction, and the orgasm rips through him. He comes for moments that seem to stretch into endless bliss, and she licks him clean until he’s shuddering under from her over-sensitivity.

Then he feels the tiny prick of a needle-

“Goodnight,” she whispers, tucking him back into his jeans.

And he sleeps.

*******

She’s long gone when he wakes, of course. It’s clear in the daylight that the apartment has been ransacked - by her, he guessed. He eventually finds the key tucked under his balls -  _ funny - _ and when he searches for any personal clues about his mystery mark, there are none.

He leaves, frustrated. 

More turned on for her than ever.

When he reports in to Alfredo, the man is a mess. On the phone when Liam arrives, he’s ranting at another Cleaner Liam knows in passing. Wondering when he’ll bring the crime lord the news that his daughter is dead.

It makes Liam’s heart (gratifying to find out he still has one) stop.

_ Alfredo’s daughter. _

Why would he want her out of the picture?

He presses a button on his watch that records audio as Alfredo gives the other Cleaner a location.

Whatever happens to him afterwards, he  _ must _ get there first.

********

It’s full night by the time he reaches the unassuming building in the meatpacking district. A sign outside reads  _ Amber’s School of Dance. _ He bets her name isn’t really Amber. Her eyes are that colour, though. The same liquid gold as Alfredo’s. How did he not notice?

_ She wants an ordinary life, _ he’d bet. And as Alfredo’s daughter that would be beyond her reach. But what could have happened between them that he’d put a price on her head?

_ Any number of things. _

_ She could already be dead. _

You can’t have feelings and be a Division Cleaner. It’s just a job. You can’t think about the marks as people.

Liam knows this. He lives it.

But  _ Amber, _ or whatever her name is, has jumped clear of his defenses and wormed her way into his blood.

He settles in to his position on his stomach on the roof opposite the building. The only window is dark, but as he views the rectangle bordered by a wall covered in peeling paint, bracketed by ancient window boxes with tiny begonias in, a light clicks on and he sees her silhouette. Dancing.

He can’t hear the music but he imagines it as  _ Purple Rain _ in his head. Watches her hips move, her arms lift.

Then she stills. Her head cocks like she’s listening.

Another shadow enters the silhouetted space-

Liam breathes out. Pulls the trigger.

And then he dissembles the gun quicker than he’s ever had to before, and he’s running.

She’s choking on the floor when he reaches her, bruising starting to bloom on her honey-gold skin. He tosses his go-bag, falls to his knees before her.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

She coughs, seems to realise she can breathe, looks at him with wide, scared eyes. “How did you-”

“I know who you are.”

He cups her face in his hands. They’re gun-callused, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

Liam huffs out a laugh. “I think you know I can’t. Never failed before. Until you.”

Amber eyes the bag. “Now what? This was my last safe place.”

He takes her hands, holds them tight. “Now we run.”

*********

He pays off an associate to buy them hair dye - bottle blonde for her. Black for him. They check into a motel on the outskirts of the city - Liam carjacks an ancient Ford to get them there. It smells of cigarettes, but he doesn’t care - the smell will dull Amber’s enticing citrus scent, too unforgettable.

The clerk at the motel’s shabby reception is almost obscured by the pile of NYC merch on the shelves beside him. He barely glances at Liam as they check in.

She follows him into the creaky elevator like a biddable child.

“Hey,” he all but barks as the door of the room shuts behind them. “Hey. Don’t quit. You hear me?”

She faces him and tears track down her face. “I can’t live like this anymore, Liam. I made myself like him, to escape him. You know? I learned to trick people. To lie. To close myself off from everyone. To get away from that life. He killed my mother. Did you know that? She just wanted to walk on the beach and feel the sun on her face. But if he couldn’t have her - no one could.”

Liam listens, speechless.

She tips her face up to his, somehow resplendent, more beautiful than words despite, maybe even because of, her tear-streaked face, rain-curled hair, and mismatched workout clothes. “Wash it off me. All of it.”

He leads her to the crappy shower, turns the water on. For such a shitty motel the water pressure is  _ fantastic _ and he undresses her, in control this time, although he’d give his entire collection of trophies from his marks to see the fire inside her again. To see her cheeky wink, her triumph at handcuffing him.

He shucks his own clothes and then they’re under the spray and she melts into him, and he spears his fingers into her tangle of hair, stroking, soothing. Their mouths meet and she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, and he welcomes the tiny hurt, sliding his hands down her back, squeezing her  _ excellent _ ass. He presses his full-blown hard-on into the softness of her belly and when she releases his bottom lip, he kneels before her and spreads her legs.

Her cries are muffled by the steady thrum of the water. She’s slick and wet and hot, and her hands fist in his short, thick hair as she unashamedly rides his face. He licks her through the orgasm, relishing her abandonment, and then she yanks on his hair, hard, and he takes the hint and stands, cupping his hands under her ass.

She wraps her legs around his hips and he slides home. The water pounds down on them as he captures her mouth and then sets a punishing pace with his lower body. Her trembling thighs and gasps of his name tell him he’s got it right - just how she likes it. When her muscles milk a blinding climax from him, he gathers her pliant body close, shuts the water off. Dries them both and carries her to bed.

As she curls into him, spent, she sleepily tells him about growing up under the shadow of a notorious crime lord. And how she escaped.

And when she slips into sleep he eyes the hair dye he’s bought them. He’ll have to wake her soon, change their appearances. Make a new life for her.

For them.

But for now, he wedges a chair under the door and lets her dream. 

Perhaps, he thinks darkly, of a better man than him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
